Iron Lung drips with ire like a hypodermic syringe loaded with medicine that will either make you whole or knock you down dead. They work with jagged, rusty instruments and cut away so much diseased flesh that the patient is rendered unrecognisable, leaving behind a quivering mass of grey meat and intravenous tubes swaddled in bloodsoaked bandages lying forgotten in some dimly lit hospital room that stinks of piss and disinfectant. Every note is a hammerblow to the face, every roar the product of uncurbed belligerent rage, weighing the brutish power violence of Crossed Out against the vicious technicalities of Discordance Axis and assuring the assault is as mercilessly inventive as it is ferocious. It’s a painful, bloody ordeal, leaving lingering memories of agonised screams echoing through hospital corridors and the weary, harrowed look on the face of each and every doctor, but, as they say, what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger, right?